incubator.

The Countess Suzanne was excited and calm by turns, her cheeks were
pink, her lips scarlet, her eyes bright as blue planets at midnight.

Without faltering she rehearsed her discourse before me, reading from
her type-written manuscript in a clear voice, in which I could
scarcely discern a tremor. Then we went through the dumb show of
exhibiting the uxen eggs to a frantically applauding audience; she
responded to countless supposititious encores, I leading her out
repeatedly before the green curtain to face the great, damp, darkened
auditorium.

Then, in response to repeated imaginary recalls, she rehearsed the
extemporaneous speech, thanking the distinguished audience for their
patience in listening to an unknown confrère, and confessing her
obligations to me (here I appeared and bowed in self-abasement) for my
faith in her and my aid in securing for her a public hearing before
the most highly educated audience in the world.

After that we retired behind the curtain to sit on an empty box and
eat sandwiches and watch the last lingering plumbers pasting up the
steam connections with a pot of molten lead.

The plumbers were Americans, brought to Paris to make repairs on the
American buildings during the exposition, and we conversed with them
affably as they pottered about, plumber-like, poking under the
flooring with lighted candles, rubbing their thumbs up and down musty
old pipes, and prying up planks in dark corners.